


Sleep Dog Lullaby

by riverlight



Category: due South
Genre: Gen, Wordcount: 1.000-3.000
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-08-25
Updated: 2005-08-27
Packaged: 2017-10-26 05:30:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,004
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/279256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/riverlight/pseuds/riverlight
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>... it's songfic. Hopefully not your typical terrible songfic, though. It's my entry for the DS_Flashfiction songfic challenge: <i>Make a vid with words: tell the story that goes with your song, that works in counterpart to your song, if your song were to be the score for a story. </i></p><p>I can't really picture Fraser listening to music; that seems more Ray's line. But if he did, I think he'd like the Be Good Tanyas. I can see it now:</p><p><i>Fraser's leaning against the wall of the club. "What's this music, Ray?" he asked. "I think I like it." </i></p><p><i>"Huh." Ray grinned. "Figures you'd like it, Frase. They're Canadian. Plus, they're using banjos. That's gotta be right up your alley." </i></p><p>Of course, at that point Fraser'd have to talk about the history of the banjo for five minutes, and he'd probably end up throwing a few Stan Rogers references into the conversation, but hey, that's the Fraser we all know and love, right?</p><p>Anyway, whether or not I'm right about his musical taste, their whole CD "Blue Horse" makes me think of Ray and Fraser, especially the song for which this fic is named.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Rain and Snow

So May rolls around, and of course I start thinking of Stella like usual. Maybe that makes me a dumb shit, I don't know; I mean, it's been two years, I got no right to be thinking of her anymore. But I guess some habits you can't break. I see the lilacs around Mrs. Mancini's front porch, and suddenly I'm right back to the day me and Stel got married. It was this little church in her neighborhood, something not-Catholic 'cause we were trying to make her parents happy, and it was a nice day so they had the windows open. No stained glass, just these green-tinted windows that pushed outward, and there were lilacs right outside so the whole place smelled like flowers. So I catch a bit of that scent and I can't think of anything but her, and when Mrs. Mancini opens the door Fraser's gotta elbow me aside to introduce himself 'cause I'm just standing there not saying anything.

I tell Fraser about it later, at the diner after we've taken Mr. Mancini to the station and finally finished the paperwork. He raises his eyebrows at me over his teacup. "Wait, Ray," he says, "Mrs. Mancini reminded you of Stella? I didn't think they looked very much alike." He's giving me this politely baffled look. "I suppose they're both women, yes, but Mrs. Mancini was rather, um, stout. Not to mention black-haired."

"Naw, Frase," I say. "Not Mrs. Mancini. The flowers. I got an assess—I got a connection between Stella and lilacs. Reminds me of our wedding." Dief whines, and Fraser looks down.

"No, Dief, _wedding,"_ he says. "Not bedding. And I'll thank you to keep your prurient thoughts to yourself." Dief, as usual, ignores him and turns away. "Sorry, Ray," he says. "You were saying you have an, ah, association between your ex-wife and the flowers of the Syringa family?"

Then we have to detour for a moment for him to tell to me that he's not talking about needles like I thought. ("Syringa is the Latin name for the lilac, Ray," he says. "Use English, Fraser," I say.) And then the waitress comes over, and by the time we've explained that yes, Fraser wears red, but he's a Mountie, not a fireman, and no, despite the name he doesn't ride horses, at least not regularly, I've totally lost my flow. "Anyway," I tell him, "It's more than just the wedding thing. It's like, I got all these memories, you know?" He nods. "Like, the first time we went on a date for real, it was a hot day like this and she was wearing this little blue dress, and her hair was loose, and she just looked so damn beautiful. Came running down the stairs, and she just looked so happy to see me." I'm getting all choked up, just thinking about it.

"Ah," he says. "Go on."

I swipe a hand across my eyes. Think I got something in 'em, it's dusty in here. "I dunno, Frase," I say. "There's something about this time of year that just makes me think about her for some reason. I see lilacs, I remember the wedding. I smell sunscreen, I remember taking her to the beach. I see kids in the park, I remember the time we played hooky from school and she went swimming in the Buckingham fountain. I dunno why, it doesn't make much sense." I'm staring at my coffee, and when I look up, he's got a weird expression on his face, which kinda bothers me. Here I am telling him all my Stella memories, and he's looking at me like I'm speaking Russian or something. Or one of those languages he _doesn't_ speak. "What?" I say. "It's stupid, I know—"

"No, Ray, it makes perfect sense," he says, and he's back to being familiar polite-Mountie Fraser. "The brain is quite capable of creating associations between seemingly unrelated objects. In fact, for some people the sense of association is so strong that—"

"Yeah, yeah." I'm not in the mood for a Fraser lecture. "Don't worry about it, forget I said anything." He opens his mouth, but I hand him the bill. "Here, figure out how much we owe her, will ya?"

While he's distracted I slip Dief the last of my burger.

* * *

He's quiet, just picks up his hat and coat and walks behind me out the door, and I think maybe he's dropped it, for once. No luck, though; he picks up the conversation again once we're in the Goat.

"Is it simply this time of year?" he asks, sounding like he's picking his words.

"This time of year?" I roll down the windows, and Dief sticks his head outside and whuffs, but Fraser doesn't react, just turns a little in his seat and looks at me.

"That reminds you of her," he says. "As you said, you... associate... certain things with her, and I thought perhaps that when certain... triggers were no longer present, you might not think of her as often."

"Triggers," I say.

"Yes, Ray," he says, a little unhappily. "For example, the angle of the sun in the sky, and the plants in bloom, and the way the air smells." He makes a little gesture, presumably indicating the air, which does, in fact, smell like springtime in Chicago. "I thought that perhaps once the seasons changed you might find yourself less... affected."

"No, Fraser, no, I won't," I say, and slam my hand against the steering wheel. I really, really don't want to talk about this. "Come November I got a whole new list of things to act as _triggers._ A man in a bank hands me a fountain pen, I'm gonna think of signing the papers. I see a guy in a suit, I'm gonna think about the lawyer. It _rains,_ Fraser," I say, and my voice sounds vicious, "it _rains,_ and I'm gonna think about her. She kicked me out. Dumped my stuff in the hallway, changed the locks, fourteen years of marriage, that's it, game over, thanks for playing. And I'm standing there with a coupla suitcases and my stereo and it's fucking freezing out, and I gotta load up the Goat in the rain and go stay at a crappy motel for the night 'cause my wife decided she didn't _love_ me no more!" I'm practically yelling by now, and Dief whimpers in the back seat. "I don't have to be reminded, all right? 'Cause let me tell ya, Fraser, it rains a hell of a lot in Chicago in November, and every goddamn time it does I'm gonna remember that Stella left me." I slam my hand on the wheel again, 'cause I promised myself I wasn't hitting him again.

"I'm sorry, Ray," he says quietly. He's looking out the window, not at me. "I thought perhaps..." He trails off. After a moment, he says, almost apologetically, "Well, Ray, it _has_ been nearly two years."

I laugh a little, and he flinches. Guess it must not have been a good kind of laugh. "Thank you _kindly_ for the reminder," I say, and put a little kick on the word, and he flinches again. "It don't matter, Fraser. Yeah, it's been two years, so what? That don't mean a good goddamn. You love somebody, two years do _not_ mean a thing." I narrow my eyes at him. " _You_ know that."

He turns to the window again. "Ah," he says. "Yes."

"Ah?" I ask him. "What does that mean, ah?"

He sighs. "Nothing, Ray," he says, and turns to the window again. "Understood."


	2. Broken Telephone

Owing to the unfortunate incident with the macaws, the environmentalists, and Turnbull's childhood hockey stick, the telephone lines at the Consulate are temporarily inoperative, and we appear to be unable to make calls. Inspector Thatcher had given me quite a talking-to once I'd returned from the precinct; I strongly suspect that will be the last I see of Ray for a time, unless he wants to keep me company on guard duty. I admit, I can understand her anger; the lack of communication ability does make it rather difficult to conduct the business of the Consulate. Still, I don't think it quite fair of her to place all the responsibility for the matter on my shoulders; it was a mistake anyone could have made. The men certainly didn't _look_ like animal-rights activists. But she hadn't seem inclined to hear reason. "No, Constable," she'd said, cutting me off as I tried to explain, "I don't care about 'extenuating circumstances.' My Consulate is full of feathers and I have no way to contact Ottawa. I expect you to deal with this immediately." She'd given me a rather daunting steely-eyed glare. "And don't tell me you can't contact the phone company because we have no phones, Constable, because _I do not want to hear it._ All right, Constable?"

"Yes, sir," I'd said, and that was that. And I'd gone back to my office to try to get in touch with the phone company at eleven o'clock on a Thursday night.

My office is empty; Dief is presumably off somewhere. Sulking, I imagine, because I scolded him earlier. Even my father seems to have disappeared, so I'm alone. This is hardly unusual; I'm long accustomed to solitude. I've spent weeks at a time alone while in the Territories. But I confess, tonight my office seems almost unbearably desolate. Dark, and, with winter coming, cold as well. I suddenly can't stand to stay there another minute. Perhaps I'll—yes, I'll go visit Ray; he's often awake this late, and he'll let me use his telephone, I'm sure.

I've just put on my jacket when Dief returns. He looks rather suspiciously content, and I find myself getting angry. "Oh, now you show up, do you?" I ask him. "You've decided I'm better company than a bunch of birds, after all?" He, insufferable as always, doesn't deign to reply.

Well, perhaps it was unfair of me. "I'm sorry, Diefenbaker," I apologize. "It's been a very long day." He whuffs at me and settles on the rug. "I'm going to Ray's," I tell him. He doesn't move. "All right, all right," I say. "But just for five minutes."

I'm woken some time later by my father walking out of my closet. "Oh, hello, son," he says. He has snow in his hair. "What are you doing asleep in the middle of the day? That's hardly the way to Maintain the Right." He looks around vaguely. "You know, I could go for a cup of tea. Where's your kitchen?"

I follow him into the hall. "It's nearly midnight, Dad," I say, my voice scratchy with sleep.

"Oh, is it?" He waves this away. "Well, that's all right, then. Ah, here we are."

Once he's put the kettle on, he leans against the counter, perfectly at ease. "You know, son," he says, inspecting my uniform (which is, I admit, rather shamefully rumpled), "you're looking a little peaked. Are you getting enough healthy exercise? Outdoor living, that's the ticket."

"Outdoor living?" I repeat back to him, suddenly beyond caring how I sound. "I spent today in the company of a crazed environmentalist and twenty birds with three-foot wingspans and the intelligence of young children, not to mention a Chicago detective who's enough to try the patience of a saint on a good day," I say, feeling my ire rise at the mere thought of it . "And let me assure you, Dad, that this was not a good day. We stopped Dr. Jimenez before he was able to carry out his plan, but I'm afraid Constable Turnbull's peewee hockey stick is beyond repair, and I'm likely to be spending the next week on guard duty unless I can get the telephones fixed. I do not have the patience to talk about 'outdoor living'." He blinks. _"And,"_ I say, before he can interrupt, "I do not want to hear a single story about birds. One of the macaws stole my hat, and when I tried to get it back, it flew just ahead of me out of my reach, and when I chased it, it _laughed at me._ So did Ray, for that matter." Dief barks at me from his corner. "It was _not_ funny, and if that's the quality of your opinions, you can keep them to yourself, thank you kindly." He barks at me again, but it seems the late hour and the trying circumstances of the day have worn down my capacity for politeness. "No, Dief, no," I say, and my voice sounds tight to my own ears. "Since when do you believe in catching your own meals? We'll never manage to replace that macaw, you know. Tropical birds are rather thin on the ground in Chicago, or hadn't you noticed? Unless we're planning on taking up poaching, I simply don't see a way, and you must admit Inspector Thatcher would probably fire me if she heard I'd been doing such a thing; it's hardly in line with official RCMP policy—" I pass a hand over my eyes.

"Well," my father begins. "Usually that's true, son, but there was one time when Buck Frobisher and I—" I suppose my expression must make it very clear the mood I'm in, because he catches sight of my face and suddenly shuts his mouth. "Oh, well," he says after a moment, "it was an unusual case, I suppose; you're not likely to find similar circumstances here." He drains his mug and sets it on the counter. "Why don't you go for a walk, son? A little air will do you good."

I have no desire to go for a walk. What I want to do is shower and go to bed, in that order. But I have my orders, and so I must put off my own needs for the sake of duty. "All right, Dad," I say. "All right."

* * *

I go to Ray's, of course. Where else? But his window's dark. I shouldn't be surprised, I suppose; it's past midnight now, and he's been up since six. He dearly deserves to be in bed after a day like the one we've had. Still, though, I find myself wishing he were awake; we often relax together in the evenings, and his company would be a... comfort tonight.

Dief whines at me. "Should I go up?" I ask him, hesitating on the step. I could; Ray would probably let me in. "What's up, Frase?" he'd ask. "You okay?" And he'd offer me a cup of tea and give Dief a muffin, and we'd sit on his couch for a while and talk about little things, the GTO or Thatcher's haircut or the football pool that Lieutenant Welsh is pretending not to know about. And eventually he'd start yawning and he'd try to convince me to take his sofa for the night, but I'd have to decline for fear I wouldn't make it back to the Consulate on time, and so I'd let him go back to bed. And I'd be back outside and I'd have woken him for nothing. That's not what he needs. "No, Dief," I say. "We'll walk through the park instead."

One of the first things I did when I came to Chicago was map the locations of all the public parks, and I admit I found myself pleasantly surprised. This one is my favorite, if only because it's within walking distance of both the Consulate and Ray's apartment. I often find myself there; I appreciate the sight of living things, and Dief seems to enjoy it. During the day it's bustling and lively, with children on the swing-sets and lovers on blankets and people selling ice cream or hotdogs. But the evenings are the time I like best; the colors of the sunset over the water are lovely.

After all these years Chicago is still a foreign world to me in many ways; the urban society Ray navigates with such ease seems stifling to me, and these oases of greenness have been one of my saving graces. Dief's company, as well, and Ray, of course. Ray. I'm not especially religious, but I'm... grateful for him. Without his presence, sometimes I think I would go well and truly insane.

It's late, much later than I'm used to, and the park is deserted. Dief wanders, seeking out all the night scents, and I take my usual bench. I'm tired, but it's a distant sort of tiredness now, not so much physical exhaustion as that familiar quietness of soul where everything seems muted and unimportant. I let my mind drift. At home—

No, I'm not going to think of home. What else? This morning's events seem like a lifetime ago, and I can't bring myself to care, anyway. Ray. Of course my thoughts turn to Ray. When I first returned from my vacation and found not my partner Ray Vecchio but another man with the same name, I was shocked, angry, bewildered. I admit, I thought for a time that I had gone mad, and I never thought that this new Ray, too, would become a dear friend. But he has. Sometimes I worry that I can't give him anything to compare to what he's given me with the gift of his friendship; I worry that he doesn't know how much I care for him. I'm not very good at expressing such things. I think of a line from Eliot: _It is impossible to say just what I mean / but as if a magic lantern threw the nerves in patterns on a screen—_

The leaves above me rustle in the wind, and Dief, beside me, makes a displeased noise. "What?" I say, and I can't help smiling at his expression. "Oh, yes, of course. You don't enjoy Eliot." He barks agreement, and I laugh. "Well, I can't say I appreciate your taste either, necessarily, but to each his own. Come on, I'm ready for bed. Let's go home."

**Author's Note:**

> This was meant to be a fic in five parts (this being the first) and I never did finish it, sadly. Part two is linked below. Otherwise: well, I'm sorry, I'm a bum, I guess. It was gonna be Ray/Fraser, though, and would have had a happy ending, so there's that, I guess?


End file.
